


the present hour

by Pares (kormantic)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Community: choc_fic, Group Sex, Multi, OT4, Rodney With Girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2007-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only reason he'd even come in was because there'd been <i>three</i> lifesigns on the detector, which he'd figured meant, you know, <i>kaffeeklatsch</i>, or late night three-hand poker—at the outside, certainly nothing more risqué than maybe a drunken game of Twister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the present hour

**Author's Note:**

> The good lines are stolen from linabean and the beta is brought to you by the letters P, U, N and K (runpunkrun) and still more linabean. Apologies for being a day late, kids.
> 
> Prompt: Sept. 21, 6. Stargate: Atlantis, OT4 Ronon/Teyla/Rodney/John: Puppy pile/cuddling - "Forget the past and live the present hour." -- Sarah Knowles Bolton

_"Forget the past and live the present hour." -- Sarah Knowles Bolton_  


 

P2M-744 had pretty much _sucked_ : Rodney's lips white with fear, a stunned Teyla limp in Ronon's arms, and, for the first time, _Ronon_ looking flat-out terrified. Later, Ronon admitted, in a low, reluctant murmur, that he'd been convinced that Teyla had stopped breathing. Happily, John had been able to get to his gun, and a few bursts of well-placed fire later, the Wraith had been buried alive in alien shale and the tunnel had failed to collapsed on his team as they ran for the jumper.

That night, Teyla shows up at his door to ask him if he wishes to sit in meditation with her, but John begs off in favor of a run instead. Too wound-up and unsettled to even think about wrestling with inner peace, John knows he'll be up all night anyway, walking the halls of Atlantis, trying to remind himself that everyone's safe and alive, that everything's _fine_.

*

Even when he isn't patrolling, John sometimes wanders around after hours checking in with (checking _up_ on, Rodney huffs) anyone who happens to be up and around outside of their usual haunts. He's stumbled onto (and snuck away from) not a few torrid make out sessions in Atlantis' halls, and once or twice he's seen way more than he's wanted to see of one or another of his off-duty Marines, but he's never seen anything like _this_ before.

The only reason he'd even come in was because there'd been _three_ lifesigns on the detector, which he'd figured meant, you know, _kaffeeklatsch_ , or late night three-hand poker—at the outside, certainly nothing more risqué than maybe a drunken game of Twister.

For John, it's like walking into an art gallery. A really ritzy, minimalist, _kinky_ art gallery.

It's a huge, sparsely furnished room, golden with flickering candlelight, and at its center is a wide, table-high platform, where Ronon sits at a slight angle from the door, cross-legged on an Athosian blanket, naked and gleaming with sweat. Teyla straddles his lap, smiling softly, chin held proudly high, and there's a hint of joined, slick flesh when she kneels up and then resettles herself with a low sound of satisfaction. Rodney is standing on the floor behind her, facing away from John and holding Teyla's sweat-dark hair to one side so he can press his mouth against the nape of her neck.

All the nudity on display is only a little less startling than the fact that _Rodney_ is having a three-way, and the entire image brands itself onto John's brain with searing finality, but only after his first pang of _hey, what about **me?**_ has given way to a sudden state of confused arousal.

Rodney's cheek is now mashed against Teyla's hair, his mouth slack, hands cupping her shoulders, and even by candlelight John can see his face is flushed. After a moment, Rodney reaches around to cup Teyla's breasts, dipping his head briefly to rest his forehead against her shoulder. Ronon's hands smooth down from her hips to cover the curves of her ass, and Teyla nods approvingly, her gaze locked with Ronon's, her face glowing, her breath strong and audible. Watching her now, John realizes how tired she'd looked at his door earlier that night, and is relieved to see that fleeting impression of fragility fall away.

"She's ready for you," Ronon rumbles, his eyes never leaving Teyla's face. There's a shuddery indrawn breath from Rodney, and he sets one hand on Teyla's hip, using the other one to guide himself (John can't look away from Rodney's stiff cock, slick with lube, filling his hand) forward against, up, _into_ Teyla's body. They all go very still for what seems a _very_ long time, Rodney's face taut with concentration, Ronon's expression one of utter devotion, Teyla sweating freely, with a fierce, glad look that reminds John of a picture he'd seen of a goddess of the hunt. The moment's broken when Rodney clasps Teyla's upper arm and lets out a little moan before beginning to rock forward minutely, just inching in, with tiny nudging hitches of his hips.

Teyla's head falls back slightly, lips parting in a soundless cry, her eyes fluttering closed. Ronon tenses, candlelight limning the line of his shoulders, and he says her name in a low, urgent voice that sounds almost panicked to John's ears. Immediately, her eyes slip open again, and she caresses Ronon's cheek with the backs of her fingers.

"You do well. You do—" and she gives a little hitching moan, " _Very_ well," she murmurs, and Rodney says, "Christ," softly, reverently.

They're trembling, John realizes; Rodney is clearly struggling the hardest, trying to steady his breathing, the hand on Teyla's hip flexing visibly.

"Okay, okay, here's the thing," Rodney babbles suddenly. "This is—this is—Christ this is good, it's good, it's _too_ good, I mean, I don't want to let you down, you should have what you want, you deserve it more than anyone, but—"

"Rodney," Teyla says, and her voice is throaty and tender, but commanding. At the sound of her voice, Ronon lifts his hands to Rodney's shoulders, thumbs stroking Rodney's skin as Teyla continues, "We are with you. Be with us. We are all here with you. Is that not right, John?"

John freezes, a kaleidoscope of emotion cartwheeling in his gut as everything slams into him at once: the dryness of his mouth, a distant tingling in his hands, the hot splash of shame at being caught, the bitterness of his unexpected jealousy, the heavy smell of sex and sweat and melting candle wax, and most of all, the damning, unforgivable, and painfully _obvious_ tenting of his loose sweats.

Ronon looks at him with unsurprised interest, a sort of amused satisfaction that seems to say, "It's about fucking _time_ ", but Rodney, Rodney is stock-still and wide-eyed, and looking anything but glad to see him.

Teyla squirms a bit, turning to hold out her near hand toward John, and Ronon's eyes fall closed with a happy-sounding grunt.

John makes some sound, not quite a word and Teyla smiles at him suddenly, girlishly, and he takes an entirely involuntary step forward as Ronon shifts beneath her, his brow tensing. Cupping her palm against Ronon's throat over his tattoo to steady him, Teyla kisses him gently, soothingly, urging him to keep it together. "Not yet," she says softly. "We are not there yet."

Rodney's still staring at him, his face less afraid now, almost hopeful, and John licks his lips uneasily. Rodney screws his eyes shut then and practically _whimpers_ , "Seriously, I think I'm going to give myself a _stroke_ —" and John just _goes_ to him, resting his hands on Rodney's back, his fingers touching Ronon's spread against Rodney's shoulder blades, says, "It's okay, buddy, you've got it," and Rodney shakes under his hands before hiding his face against Teyla's hair.

Running his hand firmly up along Rodney's arm to his shoulder, John cups the back of Rodney's neck.

"That's really not—making it any less _hot_ ," Rodney complains.

John hears himself laugh a little, because he's nervous, and everyone else is _naked_ and he's trying to derail his impending freakout at this sudden and inexplicable _team orgy_ he is apparently about to take part in, and yet Rodney sounds exactly the way he always does, and that makes it easy somehow.

Crowding up against Rodney from shoulder to thigh, John feels Ronon's big hand ruffle his hair, palm the cap of his skull and give his head a brief, friendly shake. He hears Teyla make a pleased sound as Ronon shifts beneath her again, and Rodney lets out a tiny whine and finally shoves home all the way, buried to the hilt in _Teyla_ , who gives a pretty hilarious little squeak before she laughs out loud, almost purring, _"Rodney."_

"There, see? I knew you could do it," John says, lips grazing Rodney's reddened ear.

"Oh god," Rodney pants, "Shut _up_ , shut up shut up shut up! Can't you see I'm trying to _concentrate_ here?"

John lets one hand fall on Ronon's knee and reaches forward to take Teyla's left hand, letting his mouth learn the glide of Rodney's skin just behind his ear, his cock prodding at the high, hot curve of Rodney's bare ass through his sweatpants.

"Now," Teyla says, sounding breathless and elated and sure, squeezing John's hand, and John slides his hand up Ronon's thigh and bites down hard on Rodney's shoulder. Rodney seizes up, bitching, " _Ow_ —what— _oh_ ," and John feels the others come together, gasping or silent, still or shuddering, and John holds them through it, brings them safely down.


End file.
